


el otro cielo

by driedvoices



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana visits Narnia, and learns a thing or two. Written for twoskeletons of livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	el otro cielo

Morgana fits in their halls the way she fits in her own skin; the marble of the floors beckons to her, echoes in the corridors drum like heartbeats. Sometimes she’ll catch herself startled by a beast roaming the castle calmly, same as her, and she shakes her head, scolds herself. Camelot must be seen as tolerant (because sometimes, she needs a reason to blind herself as to why she stays).

The sovereigns are more peculiar and lovelier, all at the same time. Peter was somber, in the beginning, and he welcomed Morgana with a stately nod and bow. She smiled, though, when Edmund grinned and kissed her hand, when Susan pinched Peter’s arm lightly and laid a light touch on her arm, when Lucy curtsied and tripped a little. The light that sparkles in their eyes is the same, but with slight variations, like how Susan’s is a cold fire but Lucy’s is all gold.

The gardens smell sweet and otherworldly, and though Morgana remembers the scent, she can’t place it, like a dream not fully realized. 

“Chrysanthemums,” Lucy says, linking her arm through Morgana’s, “and lotus flowers.” She smiles brightly. “Those are the most fragrant.” 

“I’ve never seen so many different kinds in one place,” Morgana says, and her skin stands out, pale against the radiant colors of Narnia. “How do they grow? All together like they are.”

Lucy kneels down, fine gown muddied at the hems and the knees. “From what I’ve heard of other countries,” she says slowly, smoothing her hand over a patch of bare earth, “you try and give them too much. Too many boundaries.” Her eyes are shaded, veiled by her hair. “They start to rely on that, destroy what they don’t know. You let them be, and…” Lucy doesn’t finish, just looks up and moves her hand. Morgana drops her eyes and gasps something that might be a laugh, sees the green shoots between Lucy’s small fingers. 

“What are they?” she asks, and Lucy chuckles at the wonder in her face. “Whatever they choose to be,” she replies, and Morgana pulls her up. 

-

Susan throws a banquet in welcome, but she pulls Morgana aside and says conspiratorially, “We throw banquets for anything here,” and her easy grin makes it not insulting, like it would be had it come out of any other mouth. Morgana is used to the dim light of fireplaces, spiced wine and long speeches. The wine tastes almost the same, she’s relieved to find. Her dress seems too dull here, underneath chandeliers that shine like morning sun, but no one is too concerned with it. The table is piled with strange fruits that bleed staining juices against Morgana’s lips and down her chin once or twice, when she’s not careful. Lucy giggles at her and hands her a handkerchief. Morgana opens her mouth to thank her, but every time she tries, Lucy shushes her, tells her to watch this, listen to that. And Morgana obliges, eyes wide and dancing, following the steps of the naiads and dryads, the intricate and smooth movements of their arms. Edmund and Peter are whispering to each other through all the beautiful distractions of their countrymen. Susan smacks Edmund on the head soundly, though, in the middle of a faun’s song (mournful and intoxicating and infinite), and that’s the end of that. 

She’s hesitant to dance; she worries she won’t know the right steps, but her hosts will have none of it. Edmund grabs her wrist and pulls her to the floor, and those are Lucy’s lips against her ear, murmuring nothing, anything, loosening the tension in Morgana’s shoulders. She smiles, uncertainly, then stronger when satyr grabs her hand and Lucy keeps a firm grip on the other. 

The night isn’t over when the guests leave; not even close. The fires blaze in the more private rooms of the castle and it feels a little bit like home, she thinks. The way the four monarchs sprawl out on the floor isn’t royal in the least; Edmund sits with her on a sofa, with Peter leaning against his knees; Lucy and Susan lounge on pillows on the floor. Morgana is constantly being touched, rough calluses on her shoulder, slim fingers holding her ankle. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t mind at all. The boys (because that’s what they are; kings and lords and men but mostly boys) talk of drunken politics, and Morgana doesn’t really listen because it sounds too much like Uther’s war meetings. She watches their faces instead, and is astounded by their jovial looks, by the little jabs in the shoulder and pokes to the abdomen, and she laughs in appreciation at their expressions when Susan says something witty. 

Lucy smiles languidly through their bantering, sighs and stretches with eyes half closed. It’s impossible to be certain of the time, but between a discussion of trade with Calormen and the length of Edmund’s hair, she pulls herself upright and crawls to the fireplace. She watches it for a moment, simple staring at the flames and the shadows they make: behind a book case, the leg of a chair, along the curve of Morgana’s neck. She grins slightly, and tugs on a pouch at her waist. 

“Lucy,” Susan says in reproach, but all the gets in return is a glance and a smile that makes Morgana sit up a little straighter. She watches Lucy draw the thin powder out, how it glistens like diamonds, the curved ‘o’ of her lips as she blows it into the flames. 

Morgana gasps; the flames rise up to meet her and they are a huge beast, not quite a bird and not quite a lion but a terrible mix of both. Its roar crackles with blue fire and sharpness, but it bows its head to her. Her breathing is shallow, and there’s an almost pretty tremor to her fingers as she reaches out to touch it. It’s cool and smooth under her touch for a fraction of a second, but there’s nothing but petals, white petals falling around her. She closes her hand around one; when she opens it, the ash slides through her fingers. 

Her hosts are watching expectantly, and she smiles broadly and almost claps. Susan shakes her head, but Lucy leans against the side of the couch, contented. Edmund whistles, low.

“Where’d you learn that one, Lu?” Peter asks, and Morgana can see him fighting a smile. 

“I can’t recall,” she says, a roguish turn to her lips. Susan starts to say something but Edmund quiets her. 

“Our Lucy knows where she ought not meddle,” and Susan relents a little, grabs Edmund’s hand instead.

-

“There is great magic here,” Morgana says, rapturous. Lucy picks stands on tiptoe to break an orange off the tree. The grove is vast and all Morgana sees is green (and maybe gold). She watches deft hands tear into the dented flesh. 

The queen cocks her head and smiles uncertainly, orange peels falling at her feet. “Only as much as we tolerate,” she says, but Morgana gets the strange feeling that the words are not her own. 

“Camelot has no magic,” she murmurs, “The king thinks there is too much darkness in it.”

Lucy snorts. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as dark magic or light magic. It’s just a force.” She gestures wildly with her arms. “It doesn’t exist in terms of morality. It’s just how people choose to use it.” The last of the bright skin falls from the fruit. Its insides are rosy-pink.

“I think I should like to visit Camelot,” Lucy says after a short silence. 

“Oh, no,” Morgana replies, watching teeth sink into the orange; it makes a sound like a boot in mud. “You’d hate it.”

-

The chill outside has begun to sink into their bones, so they huddle in Peter’s study, though their band of castle vagrants is cut two short today, Susan and Edmund lost in the complexities of being middle children. Peter scribbles at his desk lazily, glancing up to watch Lucy wrapped in furs, whispering to Morgana a fairy-tale about wardrobes and witches and wintertime. 

Morgana hums, a pretty, rich sound, and watches the flames crackle in the fireplace. “Will you teach me, soon, what you did to the flames?” she murmurs, and the scratching lullaby of Peter’s pen ends abruptly.

“I do not think that would be best,” he says carefully, with a smile stretched across his face, and in Uther’s court it wouldn’t bother her, but here it is time to drop the subject.

-

Lucy’s hands strum idly at the stone of the bench, and Morgana smells roses when she leans in and whispers warm against her mouth: _teach me_. And Lucy, with pink lips and cheeks and flowers in her arms that are discarded to the floor says, _yes_.

-

She leads Morgana deep into the woods where she cuts certain roots and pulls certain leaves and stops at certain trees to murmur a certain reverence to the dryads. Her face is solemn in a way that is too familiar to Morgana, and she almost regrets she asked for this until she sees Lucy’s eyes widen, watering over the too-fragrant smoke of the fire. She hands the basket of herbs to Morgana, who sorts them out under careful watch (“these two must never be mixed;” and “do you see the leaves on this one, how they look like tears?” and “this you use to conjure spirits;” “this you use to ask for love;” “this you use for vengeance, but I will ask you not to.”). Her hands are quick and dexterous, and Morgana’s fumble over sprigs of vervain and rosemary and foxglove while her tutor crushes leaves and tosses them into the fire. 

Lucy’s hand on her arm signals her to stop, to drop her work and watch, attentive. Clouds roll up in pink and blue and they’re thick, like snow. Morgana’s hands are steady as she reaches out to touch them, ignoring Lucy’s protests and letting out a little cry as the smoke swirls around her fingers and binds them like rings. She leans forward on her knees and pushes further, and it is beautiful like rain and fire and translucent and she is sure that if she could lean just a little closer she could see it clearly.

Lucy pulls her back violently and slaps her soundly across the face. She draws her shaking hand back and Morgana falls backwards, like they’re both shocked at what she did (though only one of them is). “You mustn’t do that again,” Lucy says with a tremor in her voice like a hurricane, and Morgana runs back to the castle, alone.

-

Lucy spends a lot more time with Susan, and Morgana’s clothes start to maintain a constant scent of burnt sage.

-

Morgana steals away to lakes and rivers, usually, because the ocean is too tumultuous and vast and changing. She brings her cloak up around her face and drops a pebble in the still waters, watches it dance to the bottom of the steam. She watches as the ripples take the shapes of faces, limbs, and buildings; a watery facsimile of Camelot in her scry. Arthur and Uther, alone and silent at a non-descript meal. Merlin and Gwen, clumsy and shyly coquettish, respectively. She loses focus and the image is gone, suddenly; she curses. The hand clutching her cloak at the neck is shaking, not with yearning. Not quite. 

-

In an alcove, while Cair Paravel sleeps:

“There’s a reason Peter didn’t want me to teach you, you know. Camelot isn’t like Narnia, the magic here could _do_ things to you.”

“It hasn’t yet.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t. If the others find out, they’ll have you sent back.”

“I know.”

“I’m not going to try and stop them.”

“I _know._ ”

-

Lucy knows what Edmund carries in his arms before it’s close enough to distinguish. Dark wool against pale skin, slick as glass. Morgana’s neck is bent backwards, exposed. Edmund carries her like a bride. 

They open the door to Lucy’s chambers and lay her gently on the bed, like a doll. 

-

“Is she—“

“No,” Lucy says sharply, and Susan bites her tongue. “Only sleeping,” and they hold vigil by the door, only Lucy staying inside. 

Edmund touches Lucy’s shoulder once, after he lays fresh towels and water by Lucy’s perch; she shivers, and he presses closer. 

“I think a kiss is supposed to wake her,” he says. He means it lightly but it comes out snide and empty. 

“Shut up, Ed,” Lucy says, and shrugs him off. This could mean a multitude of things, like _don’t you think I’ve tried?_ or _shut up, Ed._

She grasps Morgana’s hand in her own and it is cold, cold, cold. 

-

She knows she is dreaming; if nothing else, this is true.  
She sees rolling fields and forests that are familiar to her, yet they seem distant, like she’s only seen them through a window. The curiously rich sound of blades slicing air is below her, but she doesn’t look down. 

She only looks up, into the graying sky, bleached so light it makes her eyes burn. 

She dreams of a Narnian sun over the towns of Camelot, but for some reason, she can’t seem to make both of them fit within the borders of her mind. 

Outside, her brow furrows. Someone weeps. 

-

She feels the prod of familiar fingers at her temple, at her mouth (and a disgusting taste therein), and hesitantly, she squints one eye open. Gaius is standing over her with a questionable-looking bottle in hand, and he lets out a little gasp of relief. Merlin then jumps into her line of vision, rattling on about how thin and pale she looked! How long had she been sleeping, how long since she last ate? She smiled weakly at their comical concern, and shook her head: her lips are flooded with _I don’t know_ s and _I’m not sure_ s. 

There’s a knock at the door, a flurry of hushed voices behind it asking what all the ruckus is, and Uther enters. Morgana drops her eyes to the ornate quilts strewn around her. She hears Merlin and Gaius shuffle out, can just _see_ Uther’s expression, the one that says he is king, you will obey him. 

“Morgana,” he says, formally. She does not look up. 

He kneels at her bedside, takes her hand. Morgana meets his eyes with veiled amusement. “I think it’s time,” he says, pained, “that you return.” The _home_ is omitted, but she hears it, clear and ringing. 

“My lord,” she says, and cocks her head in what could be defiance or a bow.


End file.
